Naya Valdellon - Letter

[writtenbyhand.livejournal.com]

Letter
Naya Valdellon

Was she thinking: grief
is a letter you mail to yourself

once the turnstile’s been turned
x or so number of times

at the train station? The delay
is necessary, is chosen in advance

for a day like this, when she pushes
the door open into a room

made immaculate, and relatives
made inquisitive, by an infant’s

early death. The father lets out
facts one at a time: heart failure.

Two days of life. Less than one hour
for the cremation. The periods

like steel clicking into place.
She hears the footsteps of a man

who hands the ashes back
in a white envelope, to the mother

who accepts it with the calm
of a commuter holding a ticket

to a train ride that will carry her
farthest from the right address.

Lesson -- Lynn Chandhok

[cloudwrapdcity.livejournal.com]

At Shalimar, we made the gardener cry.
We ran through mazes trimmed in marigold,
Past dahlias, calla lily, climbing rose.
The narrow paths contained our games at first,
But soon we cut across the royal beds,
Smashing the courtly gold and purple blooms.

He didn't chase us off. Instead, he ran
To wake our grandfather, evidence in hand:
Crushed petals which he pressed against his face
And then let fall, imploring, please, Sahib, please. . . .
My grandfather rose and scolded us, but softly.
And so we learned, like palace princesses,
That he who seemed the master was not our master.
We slowed our steps, minding the paths he tended.